TQR Confidential

Saturday, March 24, 2012

Dear Mr. Miller,

Miniscule is not a word. Minuscule is derived from minute, as in a very small particular (not the temporal designation comprising 60 seconds, either).

Other than that, THE AIMS AND OBJECTIVES OF THE AMERICAN CRIBBAGE CONGRESS is out of sight! Please give me a bio, a jpeg representation of yourself (or what you'd like to be), an address I can send you your fifty bucks to and whatever else you can think of. I'll also be sending along an electronic contract for you to sen back to me with your electronic signature 'pon it.

One thing, I'd like to shorten the title to this THE AIMS AND OBJECTIVES OF THE ACC 'cuz a majority of folks will think Atlantic Coast Conference (North Carolina, Duke, Georgia Tech etc) when they first see the title and will get a kick out of the actual meaning of ACC as it pertains to the piece that you have written. What do you say? Also because is it will fit on the monitor easier abbreviated.

Anyhow. Congrats. You made me laugh. I will elaborate on TAaOotACC when I break the news in the EXECUTIVE SUITE on site. Bueno.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Dep cools off Price's THE HOTTEST SPOT

Bonjour, Michael Price:

Oui, The Hottest Spot tells a tale, doesn't it? Let me say this: you know how to weave a tawdry plot well enough, mon ami, and to keep the attention of a reader----even one with a pitifully short attention span such as yours truly. Your cap lures us in, like a snake disguised as a pretty fawn, to this hotspot you've named Julia's. But then you allow us to wander.

The Hottest Spot does not touch the monkey, mon ami, though it is not without potential. In short talk: Edit required.

Watch the monster semi-colon; she is a useful tool, but is too often misused.

Hmmm, Joyce might cast a wobbly Eye of Moby upon you for Jay tossing up a casual ineluctable modality, too.

You are a brave man to have written of Jay's journey of a hell, and then to have submitted it here. Bravery is good. We will see you again, in another shape.

Merci for your interest in this bag of weeds, homegrown in the lightly hoed Garden of TQR.

Tuesday, March 06, 2012

With ba da (porthole) and a bing (ascension), Dep ends her 7 week marathon session on The Floor

[DeP appears to have lost weight. Pizza crust sticks to the underside of the hula-hoop as she deftly step-rolls it in the general direction of Doomey-the-Encrusted, the Porthole, and the Tube. Oui, she can do this all concurrently. Do not blink.]

Alors. This has taken longer than expected, mes amis. I am thoughtful, but not slow. Painless now, c'est lundi. Okay, Doomey? I've saved you some pizza. Sure. I know you aren't listening, nor can you eat it. That's why I made that little replica of you. See? It's crude, I agree....and, well, Rimbaud is taking advantage...[she arrives at the Porthole, balances strangely, just long enough to yank open the rusty-hinged thang and toss out a very sticky, man-urinal shaped cap. Old goat laughter rises from the deluge, then fades as Monsieur Price's The Hottest Spot does not quite meet its fate.]

Next time, he will eat semi-colons for breakfast. Okay, remember the Lone Ranger and Tonto? Two kimosabes in weird costumes doing the right thing. Well... [she hesitates, wheels backward, then pauses until the Tube calms itself before opening the hatch. It always gets a little shakey when it senses something new to eat approaching ...]

Another Michael? Que? I don't control these things...not completely anyway. El Termina-li! Ride this one! Up goes Monsieur Schwartz's Time Out of Tune...buh-buhbubb-bad to the bone.

Rimbaud? Get ye to the hammock, o partly damaged kitty o'mine. [she rolls with grace toward the hammock hanging there in the dim light, on this Floor, her haggard little face pale with fatigue. The hoop stops, seems to lift slightly as though to ease her gently into her cocoon of rest. And she rolls into the hammock, one hand rising to click out an invisible light. The cat joins her. Her eyes close as she whispers...]

Monday, March 05, 2012

Gabrielle condemns TIME OUT OF TUNE to a date with the meat mincers at the Terminal

Bonjour Michael Schwartz:

Sir, listen to me: have you ingested one too many of those little pieces of paper originating sometimes from the underbelly of Those Parts but sometimes also from These Parts, hmmm?

Nevermind, I am not the Dream Police. Go Your Own Way, Lindsay Buckingham once shouted out the window to poor Little pouting Stevie. You see what happened to them, non?

So...Time Out of Tune. You, monsieur, are the cause this week of my having to explain my outbursts of spontaneous laughter while sitting demurely at my desk sipping dandelion tea. It's completely your fault...you and your....parts.

It may high; it may be low. It may be too long; it may be slain at sundown by a limping burro. But I can tell that you are willing to take the risk, mon ami.

Therefore, be warned. You've slapped the monkey's toenails and, once or twice even snagged one loose with your capital. It's going up to the Meat Mincers. Oui, el Terminali.

You asked for it. Polish up your boots, Michael. You and Time Out of Tune are going for a ride. No need to be...too afraid.

Friday, March 02, 2012

Oh, Ms. Borade,

See what it is that you've done? You have submitted to us here at TQR a [gasp!] cap...this Uranus Calling... made up almost entirely of fart humour.

We are shocked, thrust backward at such force that we fall, reluctantly as you can imagine, upon the unclean glass tiles of The Floor where we are in danger of becoming stuck indefinitely in the yellow bile of Doomey's nightmare. And still, we...at least I...fail to escape the gaseous emissions that have evoked a kind of filmy, slightly unclean vision from places within my imagination I'm unsure have been visited prior to embarking on this trip to Uranus with you.

The repercussions? Those of the decidedly beef-like appetites who lurk upstairs in The Terminal must journey along your pages to see what they see, and turn as they turn, so to speak.

Let us see what happens.

Merci for your continued interest in the back alley rag known as TQR, and bon chance!